Ian McMillan: Rosemary and time... keys to a life sentence

They'd been writing them at school and we sat down and discussed capital letters and full-stops with more excitement and engagement than is usually afforded those fundamental but essentially workaday

subjects.

I like talking about sentences, too, so a bit of grammar chat was fine by me.

My wife then asked Thomas if he wanted to put some dried Rosemary from the garden into a jar; he did, and they spent a while dropping the herb into a jar that once held blackcurrant jam.

Then she asked if he wanted to make a label for the jar, and, of course, he did because he's at that wonderful age when everything is exciting, and writing on a label and sticking it on a jar is just the best thing in the world.

He sat and looked at the label. He got a pen and wrote. And instead of just writing "Rosemary", he wrote a sentence. I've just read it again and it makes my heart swell with pride. It says "Rosemary is in this pot", and there, in those few words, is the start of a journey that could take him anywhere, anywhere at all.

I've always been a fan of the gorgeously resonant sentence, and although I love poetry I have to confess that as far as I'm concerned, nothing can beat a good sentence.

One of the reasons I enjoy writing these columns so much is that I can take the raw material of my week, or the unshaped events that pass by in life's ragged and unformed wandering, and turn them into sentences that can sometimes gleam or at least inform.

Some sentences, once I've read them, will stay in my head for as long as my head can retain things, I'm sure.

"It was one of those Septembers when it seemed the summer would never end" is the opening sentence of Casino Royale, Ian Fleming's first James Bond book.

Although Fleming wasn't always a great sentence-maker – because he was too busy telling the name of the gun and the maker of the wine – this one rings like a bell and I always repeat it to itself when summer seems to be hanging on even though the calendars tell me it's

officially autumn.

My favourite newspaper columnist ever was the late Patrick Campbell and he once began one of his pieces with the words: "So far I, naked, have come rushing at women twice." It's a sentence that shouldn't work, that almost sounds clumsy and badly written but, in the end, for me,

succeeds brilliantly.

So now Thomas's "Rosemary is in this pot" will become his Bare Bottom on the Rug moment.

You know what I mean: we've all got a Bare Bottom on the Rug moment, or it might be a Dressed up in Mummy's Shoes and Carrying Her Handbag moment, or it might be a Jam All Over the Face moment. I refer, of course, to those embarrassing photographs and artefacts that parents and grandparents insist on getting out when you bring your first date home to meet the family.

There you both are, perched on the very edge of the settee, holding cups of tea awkwardly as you try to balance a plate of biscuits on your knee.

Suddenly, another biscuit tin is brought out and you can't understand why because you've already got plenty of biscuits. And then you

realise: this tin has no biscuits in it. This tin isn't full of biscuits. It's full of humiliation.

And soon your mother and your girlfriend/boyfriend are chuckling at the sight of you as a toddler naked and lying on a rug, or with lipstick smeared on your chops, or dressed angelically for a solo in the church choir.

So when Thomas is a teenager and I'm an old man with eyebrows like a privet hedge and glasses thicker than cathedral windows, and he brings the Love of His Life to our house, I'll wait until the opportune moment, perhaps after the second cup of tea and the discussion of the weather and the price of petrol, and I'll say, in my quavery old man's voice: "I'm just going to fetch something."

Thomas's eyes will register fear and pleading at the same time, perhaps one emotion for each eye. He'll shake his head minimally but, of course, I'll ignore him. The Love of His Life will look curious and intrigued. Thomas's face will glow red under his full beard.

I'll be out of the room for a few minutes, to heighten the anticipation and then I'll come into the room with a cardboard box. I'll open the cardboard box gently like it contains a sacred object, which, in some ways, it does.

I'll get out the jar and give it to Thomas. The lettering will be a little faded now, but still visible. We'll all smile and laugh: "Rosemary is in this pot."

A real sentence. A life sentence.